Dreamless Sleep
by WednesdayJones
Summary: I am past addiction now; this is all I have left. I would never have to stay awake at night just so that I could retain what little was left of my sanity. I would never have to dream. Never again. -- One Shot


A/N: We're all well aware that I don't own Harry Potter, so its moot point of me to pretend I do.

Rating… Urm, what was the PG-13 rating before hand for a swear word near the end! - I can't remember the new ratings off the top of my head. What's with changing them? It's a one-shot, unless I get enough people who wish for it to continue. I have an idea of where it _could_ go if I felt like it, but I don't right now.

Major thanks and cookies to RoxieSnape for beta-ing this. Honestly people, go and read her story, _Shake Me, _starringa different kind of Harry - a new, fiercely independent one! With a kid all of his own. It's kept me interested for ages!

'_It's when the curtains twitch and the audience quieten, that we know it's time for the show'_

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**Dreamless Sleep**

**By The Remaining Marauder**

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_'Isthis the last sleep? _

_No. It's the last and final awakening'_

It's such an alluring option, to sleep peacefully with no interruptions. Many enjoy the pleasantness of dreams, but not I. My dreams aren't of bunnies, chocolates, and long walks on the beach. They're of murder, rape, torture, blood, mayhem. The list goes on, and doesn't get better.

Every night I'd wake up screaming myself hoarse, tears streaming down my face, and a sense of hopelessness would wash over me as I realised that these things were happening and there was nothing that I could do to stop them. It got so bad that I had to place a

_Silencing Charm_ around my four-poster, just so that my room mates could preserve their sanity and get a decent night's sleep. Just because I couldn't, why shouldn't they?

When I first talked of them, they told me that I should talk to someone. That I needed to share them with someone who could help; counselling, of a sort. But, how could I honestly share them with anyone? I wouldn't wish them on my worst enemy. This is the reason I never told my friends about them in explicit detail. He would go pale and look serious, and she would begin to cry, and then the same helpless feeling would wash back over me, making it all the more real.

It was when the _Daily Prophet_ was delivered and the news of the deaths and murders that I witnessed only night's before were reported, that I decided enough was enough and went to the nurse. Giving her a watered down version of what I was dreaming, she immediately agreed and went and fetched me a vial of it, warning me against its risks. Nodding, and murmuring that I understood, I thanked her for it and left.

Every night I would use it, and every night it worked. It worked so well that I didn't have to maintain the silencing charm around my bed that had been there for the last month. When I ran out, I would go back to the nurse and tell her that the dreams were still there, and she would give me more and more, always warning me not to use it every night. I always promised her that I only used it when I felt that I would really need it and she acquiesced.

The problem with it is that after a while the promise of instant sleep becomes a must have and the potion becomes so enticing, so seductive, that every night I was drinking a cup full, not caring about all the warnings.

When the nurse found out that I was imbibing it like Pumpkin juice, she told the higher powers, and soon enough, there was a knock on the bedroom door. Dumbledore had requested to search my trunk. Some excuses and assurances later, he still requested that he perform the search, for my own health. He found four hidden vials of the blue, airy substance and confiscated them all.

Within the next few days, I found that my friends had all been told about my 'addiction' to the potion, and that they were to, under no circumstances, obtain any of it for me, no matter how much I begged.

For days, or perhaps it was weeks, I forget, I refused to sleep. For to sleep without the drink meant nightmares and the nightmares meant that the helpless feeling returned, leaving me depressed and hollow. Every night, I would make a show of going to bed with the other boys, and then, when I was sure that they were all having the type of dreams I craved, I would get out of bed and slip back down the common room, sit in one of the plush armchairs and stare longingly into the fire. Some nights, when I was afraid that the monotony of it all was going to make me fall asleep, I'd grab the invisibility cloak and sneak out, roaming the halls of Hogwarts. The tiny thrill of getting caught raised the adrenaline in my blood stream, making me seem that bit more awake.

The constant tiredness became a companion as long as I could take it, and the weariness seemed to settle over me like a depressingly intricate cloak. The only plus side to this constant state of fatigue was that during the long nights, when sleep was not even the last option, I would work on homework essays, or practice charms and wand movements, causing a dramatic increase in the quality of my school work.

Eventually, it all seemed to catch up with me, and I crashed and burned in the middle of Transfiguration, collapsing over my desk, breathing lightly. Apparently, and bare in mind that I only heard this second hand, Hermione had told McGonagall that I had been stressed recently and that I wasn't sleeping very well. She levitated me up to the dormitory, and that was where I woke, a day later according to my watch.

After that incident, and the tortures that I dreamed, I realised that I couldn't go on, constantly not sleeping. If I crashed again, people would get suspicious. I looked up the recipe for the potion in the library, and saw that it was a long and complicated list of ingredients that I would be impossible to get from school and would most certainly get caught trying to smuggle in. Not only that, but it took a month to brew, so doing it myself was simply out of the question.

In the end, it was Ron who solved my problem. Under the pretence of being curious, I asked him where Wizards and Witches who can't brew get their potions from. His answer was so simple that I never thought about it. They just owl an _Apothecary_ with what they want and the money, and get it sent to them. See, simple.

So, that's what I did. I owled an Apothecary in Hogsmeade, under the pretence that I was studying the potion for an extra-credit project, and asked for a large sample of it. In fact, I owled two different places using the same excuse and sending the same amount of money. Two sleepless days later I found both deliveries on my bed, when I returned from Herbology class.

The seduction began all over again. My skin became less tired and haggard looking, and I became the cheerful person who had been missing that past month. I ate more at dinner and laughed more with my friends than ever before. But, I knew that Dumbledore was watching, noticing the sudden transformation and analysing it. I knew he would act again. Bastard was always too nosy for his own good.

And that bought me to where I am now. I'm not in class; I faked a headache and told Hermione to get any sheets or homework that I missed, and stayed in the dormitory. I had order another batch of the potion from yet a different place and it had arrived late last night, along with a note thanking me for my custom. I laughed at that. I was the one who should be thanking them, as it was my saviour, my last hope. I was past addiction now; this unassuming potion was all that I had left.

Setting the vile down beside me, I climbed into bed and drew up the covers. I placed my thick black glasses on the night stand and picked up the large round vile. Instead of measuring out the recommended amount, I forced back the whole bottle, resisting the urge to stop for a moment, to catch a breath.

It worked almost immediately, just as I had hoped, and I fell into a deep sleep, one where I would never dream.

Never have to wake up with that despairing feeling.

Never have to stay awake at night just so that I could retain what little was left of my sanity.

Never have to face the fact that in some sick and twisted way, I was the cause of the bloodshed, and that watching it all happen was somehow my punishment.

Never dream.

Never again.


End file.
